


Remember Me

by AnnaofAza



Series: Hartwin Week [5]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4617546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the anniversary of V-Day, Eggsy flies to America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me

Eggsy always visits Kentucky.  
  
Merlin clucks his tongue and Roxy comes bearing hot tea and biscuits every year, but on the anniversary of V-Day, Eggsy flies to America. He’s offered his mum to bring herself and Daisy and to come with him a few times, but his mum always shook her head, as if she understood.  
  
He now gets off the plane, heat blasting him full in the face and settling under his stiff, white shirt and heavy, black jacket. It’s not a Kingsman suit, though. Eggsy could wear something bearable for the hot weather, like a t-shirt and shorts, but he doesn’t. Every loop of the simple blue tie and every slip of a button through its proper hole is a memorial to Harry. His glasses are safely tucked into his pocket.  
  
Sometimes, he strolls down the streets, looking into shops and not going in. He ignores the strange looks at his accent and curious glances of passer-by. Today, Eggsy is looking for a certain building.  
  
South Glade Mission Church still holds services, but Eggsy never goes in. The billboard outside has times of different masses and a message,  _Never Forget_ , with the date. Flowers—wrapped and potted and planted—decorate the foot of the sign like a gravestone. There are unlit candles and folded notes. Eggsy’s never left a single thing here.  
  
He checks his phone. Five minutes until the time. The pastor inside is spewing vitriol and hate, and Eggsy’s stomach recoils. Harry Hart, codename Galahad—the knight with the biggest heart—wouldn’t approve. Some people begin screaming, and with a quick scan of his glasses, Eggsy figures out that it’s a rapture panic sort of thing. Not bloodshed, not maniac anger, not death.  
  
The last digit on his watch clicks to the next number. Eggsy stands in front of the church, double doors closed, and looks up at the high steeple pointing towards a cloudless sky, the same view Eggsy saw when Harry collapsed to the ground. The sun is beating down heavier than ever, and the medallion weighs lightly against his chest.  
  
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Eggsy whispers. “So sorry I wasn’t here for you.”  
  
His hands tremble. He knows, logically, if Harry had allowed him to go with him, that Valentine would have shot them both or the rage test would have made them turn against each other. Eggsy used to wake up screaming, invisible blood trickling down his palms, warm and pulsing with draining life. Sometimes, it was a bullet—sometimes, a candlestick—sometimes, his bare hands. But the end result was the same.  
  
He could have pulled Harry back. Could have picked another fight. Could have known Arthur was a traitor when he’d walked into the room with him to shoot JB.  
  
Eggsy wipes furiously at his face and checks his phone. His time is up. He needs to get out of here—go on the first plane and ask Merlin for something for him to do…  
  
As he turns on his heel, eyes blurred with tears, Eggsy collides with someone heavy and solid. Kingsman reflexes keep him from toppling onto the pavement, as well as the steady grip on his arm.  
  
“Are you all right?” That voice. Faintly American, but familiarly British. “Sir?”  
  
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Eggsy reassures hastily. “I just…fell.” And he looks up.  
  
Harry Hart smiles kindly at him. “Is it the heat?”  
  
“The what?”  
  
“The heat,” the older man patiently repeats. “It gets abominably hot this time of year, and you’re not doing yourself any favors wearing such a heavy suit. Should we get you some water?”  
  
Eggsy stumbles after him, feeling as if it were all a hazy dream. Harry’s dressed in sober black pants and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled just above the elbows. His hair is combed, but the length falls almost to his shoulders. His left hand shakes when he points at a nearby store, and Eggsy notices that it keeps shivering like a leaf in the wind when he puts it down.  
  
When they sit down in the air-conditioned booth, Harry orders two glasses of ice-cold water and asks Eggsy if he wants something to eat. Eggsy isn’t hungry, but he orders a sandwich, hoping that he can stretch out the time. Harry doesn’t get anything.  
  
“Thank you,” Eggsy says, after he downs half a glass. “I’ve never gotten your name, though.” His voice is surprisingly steady.  
  
Harry holds out his hand, and Eggsy shakes it, touching warmth and strength. “Harry.”  
  
“Your accent…it sounds familiar.”  
  
The other man only shrugs. “I was born overseas. England, I believe.”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“You were at that church, yes? I was there that year—can’t imagine why, vacation, perhaps—but I was the sole survivor of the carnage.” Harry sighs. “Now, I teach at a local boxing studio and also at college—Medieval Literature.”  
  
Eggsy’s heart pounds in his ears. “Like…Arthur? Merlin? Galahad?”  
  
Harry smiles, surprised. “You’re a student of literature?”  
  
“Not really,” Eggsy confesses, disappointed. “I’m just a tailor.”  
  
“Must be an interesting job.”  
  
“You can call it that.” Eggsy mutters.  
  
His order comes, the waiter fills up their glasses, and Eggsy forces himself to take a few bites, drinking in the man in front of him. His memories seem scattered, frays of what used to make up Harry Hart at the seams. But he seems calm—tranquil, even: just a kind-hearted man who’s moved on with his life and just helped a bumbling stranger.  
  
“Are you happy, Harry?”  
  
Harry’s smile wavers. “That’s a very forward question. Why? Are you happy?”  
  
“No,” Eggsy admits. He decides to keep going, ripping off a bandage and letting the quick pain streak through his skin: “I feel like something’s missing from my life. I have a good job and amazing friends and family—my life’s all set out for me, but I can’t be happy.” He looks Harry in the eye, pleading for him to remember. “I lost someone very…special to me, a long time ago, on this day and near this time. He took me in when no one else believed in me, and he helped make me into the man I am today.”  
  
_I loved him,_ he wants to say.  _I loved you, and I can only now admit it to myself out loud._  
  
There’s no trace of remembrance on Harry’s face, only sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss. Would it help to talk about him?”  
  
“He was brave,” Eggsy replies, still hoping for a glimmer of  _anything_  beneath those familiar brown eyes. “Very posh, but wouldn’t hesitate to get his hands dirty.” He pauses to admit, “In truth, I knew very little about him. He gave off this very capable, badass, cultivated air, with all this dry humor, conviction, and kindness. He was…just a very magnetic person. But eccentric, you know? He had his old dog stuffed and hung above the toilet.”  
  
That startles a brief chuckle out of Harry. “Fancy that!” He then looks at Eggsy, solemnly. “He seems like quite the character, but a good man. I can see why you were fond of him.”  
  
Eggsy deflates, pushing away his barely-eaten sandwich. His stomach turns. “I wish he’d known.” He waves down the waiter and digs out his Kingsman credit card; Eggsy hadn’t thought to bring American cash. But it doesn’t matter now.  
  
It’s time to leave.  
  
The other man stares at him, perturbed. “Are you all right?”  
  
Eggsy manages a brave smile. “Yeah,” he chokes. “Just…a rather emotional day.”  
  
Harry smiles gently. “I know the feeling, Eggsy. Do you need me to walk you wherever you need to go?”  
  
Always a gentleman, even in the wrong body—no, the wrong mind. “No.” It takes every ounce of him to stand up and begin his exit. “Sorry to take up your time.”  
  
Practically fleeing, Eggsy lets the door slam behind him, replaying every word of their conversation. It hurts like extracting a barbed fishhook from underneath the skin, pushing it back in—painful, but necessary, so it could be over with quickly.  
  
_’…I know the feeling, Eggsy.’_  
  
He hadn’t told Harry his name.  
  
Eggsy doubles back, but it’s too late.  
  
Harry’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is now part one (technically) of a [series.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/310446)


End file.
